Fixing Robert
by DarkHearted12
Summary: Bob is used to fixing buildings, but not himself. He is broken emotionally until he meets the one man that can help him: Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil / Bob The Builder Fanfic - RATED M
1. Chapter One, Misery and It's own company

Chapter One, Misery and It's own company.

The door slammed shut with a booming thud.

"You always do this to me, Wendy!" Bob roared from behind the bathroom door that Wendy had locked herself into, like she always had when they had quarrelled. "I can't do this, Robert." She argued, her words breaking in between soft sobs. "I- We need a break. We both can't do this. No. We can't."

There's a silence between the two, Bob registering what had just been said, removes his yellow hard-helmet and violently throws it to the cherry-wood floors, it bounces off, the sound of hard plastic echoing through the suddenly serene house. The gentle breeze of Autumn leaves brushing against the window panes that Wendy and Bob had installed just last week, the warm auburn color they had painted the window frame leaves a soft glow. "We were getting along so well, Wendy." Bob sighs, sliding his back down the wall to seat himself on the floor. "If it takes this little effort to break us, then I believe it's time that we see other people" He calmly continues, choking back tears. His eyes dart to the ceiling. "I'll pack my things, leave forever." The room remains idle. "Go adventuring, maybe."

"Build things that I'm almost incapable of"

"Life is my oyster." Bob whispers, standing himself up with a low sigh.

The handle of the front door makes a rattling noise as Bob begins to take his leave. "I'll- uh... I'll just send for my things."

"It was a pleasure knowing you, Robert" Spoke Wendy, her voice still quivering.

As Robert Builder places his first step out the door, squinting at the bright sun hitting his eyes, he realizes it's over. No more Wendy. No more team Build It. Just Bob and his worn, jean, overalls. His two steel-toed leather boots on his feet. He knows that happiness will never come, and misery has already taken control of him. This is the first day of the rest day of his slow, painful, life. 


	2. Chapter 2, Bourbon blank

Chapter two, Bourbon blank

A cluster of neon signs hang on the window next to the bartender, illuminating his chiseled face in the softly-illuminated room. "Hit me." Begins Bob, shifting another empty shot glass to the side. "Sir, I really think you've had enough." Denied the bartender, gathering the pile of abandoned shot glasses in one hand. The Sunday crowd has cleared out, leaving the bar silent, with the exception of eighties pop music gently playing in the background. Two stationary lamps hang over Bob's head, his bright yellow hard-hat brightly shining under them. "I don't think you understand." Argues Bob, peering from underneath the brim of his helmet. "I need this." He continues, shifting his glance to the bartender's face.  
With an understanding look in his eyes, the bartender returns the glance to Bob. His face, sunken, and unshaven. He begins to fill another glass.

"What are you doing with your life, sir?" Questions a man sitting a few stools down from Bob.  
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, and flicks his ashes into an untouched glass of Bourbon. Unfitting to the situation, an upbeat 80's song lingers quietly in the background. "I plan on existing until I cease to." Bob retorts in a self-justified tone, irritated to the unexpected, and personal question.  
The mysterious man watches the ashes slowly sink to the bottom of his perfectly-ruined beverage. "You're living a miserable life, aren't you?" Observes the stranger, he retrieves a stick of gum from his pocket. "I'd be damned as to why you want to know. I've found my place in the world. I have my privilege to waste away in it. "  
There's a long pause between them. The strange man opens the stick of gum and places it in his mouth.

"I want you to get excited about your life." The stranger insists, the cigarette smoke slowly curdling in the air, and rising to the ceiling. Before Bob could open his mouth to reply, the man walks from his seat. He takes a final drag from his cigarette, wrapping it in the foil from the stick of gum. He crinkles it his fist, and discards it on the bar floor. The welcome bell chimes from the mysterious man's near departure. "What a nutcase." Bob murmurs to himself, turning to witness the man taking his leave. A note falls from the man's pocket. "Hey! You dropped something!" Called Bob, hesitant to even assist the man. "It might be important." Bob explains to the bartender, rushing to pick up the piece of paper. Bob stumbles out the door, and the welcome bell chimes from behind him. "Hey!" Bob attempts to gain the stranger's attention.

The man lowers his helmet's visor and revs up his ruby-red motorcycle.  
"Sir! You dropped-" Bob's attempted alert was cut off by the strange man speeding down the road. His music echoes down the vacant street as he drives away.  
"Wonder what this could be?" Bob questions himself, while unfolding the small piece of paper.  
The note says nothing but "The Doctor" followed by a seven-digit number. 


End file.
